Things that Jill writes late at night in the boring summer

IS...IS THIS THE FIRST POST EVERERERERER?

The title of this topic is self-explanatory, I hope.


Still Water Moves

this fluid is too thick to be
the ocean, too dark to be
the sky, too much to be

broken glass:
I can smell it from here.
Somewhere up there, it is made.

People waltz around on prisms,
throw mirrors; blame fears
make it rain heavy

enough to fill craters,
but this isn't the moon.
This is stone and earth-bone

mineral miracle water around
thicker than swallowings, darker than us but
just light enough not to see

me, however million miles below
and the pitcher of glass: you.
about to throw flute-fulls of space

to hit me in my invisible face.
fall off that mountaincliff rockface of spray
and drop like a pearl through shampoo

I would be glad to meet you
instead of your swarms of thick sand
instead of the cuts on your hand

that tinkling sound when it hits the
sea and goes in one thousand directions
lies. It falls straight as one

piece of pain and disdain and
forgets the shoreline, the sharks and the reefs
tumbles below to where we can breathe.

Inhale before we touch the bottom of this rift
exhale before you can float out of my grip
shut your eyes before your lungs realize.


"did the boat capsize?"

[actually written circa April...shhh. Inspired by listening to Blue Lagoon (the Gackt song) too much.]


MSU Dorms

5/27(?)/10 circa 12:scribble AM

sleeping under paper
sure, uneasy, yes, uneasy, too
too uneasy to be evil but enough to be

I AM AT:
a loss
for
words

The ne-
on gree
n wrist
band is
far too
tight for
me to
feel an-
ything
red.


5/27/10 1:something AM in Michigan

Fraught & distraught as Sylvia
I know the poets' pain I doubted
earlier, when I could speak as freely
as a star. Now
the shortened tangled twisted
lines between us have brought me to gray
and to my ashy knees
because unless I am beside him or
beside his brain, at least, I am
too scared to sleep, too overcast
to breathe, too shy to see an eye
in any face.

[direct transcription of things I wrote when I couldn't sleep when we were on the Odyssey trip to Michigin. I think I wrote the wrong dates, haha.]

See Jill, you inspire me to be a better writer but then I realize my writing is at the "suck" stage and I feel all "de-inspired".

Actually, speaking of, I need to write that Jones fic that's been in my head for like ever. It will be quite angst-y.

See Erica (IF THAT IS YOUR REAL NAME),


BWAH.

>:

...That made me cry with tears of sadness and be happy all at the same time.

It was beautiful.

BWAH.

TRUTH?


Do not prostrate yourself to this man:
it would shatter him, but do
please sit.

It is not sleep he weaves for you,
no songs for surfaces under your spine,
not picked-strings for fingerings of constellations
but rest.

Flat and real, the earth is best
around you, a crater-lake
you traitor, you accidental fiend
This era was unkind to you.
This era is textbooks and centuries of blue
This era is sick as an animal flu.

This era has struck him down, too
but he has not fallen from the sky-set place
or the curving rock face
in his wavering life.

He's a flame in a zero-negative space,
a flame like a star burning deep within space
a soul in a room of ghost-air.

So he wavers and flickers and lives; still, this era
is cruel, this air is cool; he is warmer within it than you.

Thirteen years ago, when we were smaller than the stars
he asked for truth.
The earth has only shrunk into the cracks
as the world leaps forth to push it back. The truth has only slid
into the sea, onto the lowest floor and final drawer
where the moon does not reach.

He sings a song of mourning like the stars do after night.
For the truth, for the turth, for the truth.

He sings for you to hear, to make your eyes half-close and hands
go numb
go idle
go away
into the sea, into the sun, into the earth

out of the cold you've been swept up into,

dive deeper than you know. Dive below
the world and hit the roots. Dive where
glass is sand and stone is stone. Fly
where fingers never touched.
With strings and wings and listenings
collect the truth.

Not for this face, but because of his place: define the truth.

jillfish wrote:

TRUTH?


Do not prostrate yourself to this man:
it would shatter him, but do
please sit.

It is not sleep he weaves for you,
no songs for surfaces under your spine,
not picked-strings for fingerings of constellations
but rest.

Flat and real, the earth is best
around you, a crater-lake
you traitor, you accidental fiend
This era was unkind to you.
This era is textbooks and centuries of blue
This era is sick as an animal flu.

This era has struck him down, too
but he has not fallen from the sky-set place
or the curving rock face
in his wavering life.

He's a flame in a zero-negative space,
a flame like a star burning deep within space
a soul in a room of ghost-air.

So he wavers and flickers and lives; still, this era
is cruel, this air is cool; he is warmer within it than you.

Thirteen years ago, when we were smaller than the stars
he asked for truth.
The earth has only shrunk into the cracks
as the world leaps forth to push it back. The truth has only slid
into the sea, onto the lowest floor and final drawer
where the moon does not reach.

He sings a song of mourning like the stars do after night.
For the truth, for the turth, for the truth.

He sings for you to hear, to make your eyes half-close and hands
go numb
go idle
go away
into the sea, into the sun, into the earth

out of the cold you've been swept up into,

dive deeper than you know. Dive below
the world and hit the roots. Dive where
glass is sand and stone is stone. Fly
where fingers never touched.
With strings and wings and listenings
collect the truth.

Not for this face, but because of his place: define the truth.

Is this the one from last night?

Yes. Is that bad? o_o

jillfish wrote:

Yes. Is that bad? o_o

No i like it, i just wasn't sure. It sounded like you were going to go in a different direction last night.